Colors
ripped from the patches of tulips and roses.
Our moments,
our memories,
our childhood.
Like a bud uprooted before spring,
you suffocate our dreams,
drown our ambitions,
pilfer tomorrow’s
memories
as if nothing beautiful could have come from them.
One-of-a-kind hues and
intoxicating fragrances,
never experienced or appreciated.
How many missing blooms
leave the garden incomplete,
defective,
less vibrant than it was meant to be?
You rob from us
what could have been,
but you cannot penetrate the past.
iWrite the Utterly Impossible 